Anagnorisis
by Gemma L. Riddle
Summary: Anagnorisis: the point in the plot especially of a tragedy at which the protagonist recognizes his or her or some other character's true identity or discovers the true nature of his or her own situation. In her fifth year at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger snaps at Professor Umbridge, casting a spell that unbeknownst to her casts her back in time to 1942. AU, Tomione, time travel fic.
1. In Which Hermione Loses Her Mind

_**Author's Note:**_ Hey there, and thank you for deciding to give this story a chance! This will be a Tomione time travel fic, so if that's not for you, please just don't read it instead of going on to flame it. English isn't my first language, (I'm fifteen and went to a bilingual school for a few years, so basically there's bound to be mistakes) and if you see any mistakes or have constructive criticism, I'd be happy to hear it. Reviews are always appreciated.

 ** _Disclaimer_ : **Harry Potter isn't mine, everyone knows, and so this is the only time I'm going to say it. Deal with it.

* * *

 **Chapter One: In Which Hermione Loses Her Mind**

 _I must not tell lies._

Hermione couldn't stomach it. Certainly, she'd known that Umbridge was a terrible woman and most certainly an even more terrible teacher — still, some tiny, naïve part of her had clung to the irrational hope that at least, Umbridge possessed scruples.

To think that a teacher would do something like that to a student…!

She'd describe herself as painfully aware of the precarious situation she and her friends were in concerning her Defense education and so, so much more this year now, but from the look of the wound, Harry fitted that description in many more ways than her.

"Umbridge did this?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Well, technically I did," Harry said. "She basically forced me to do it though, so…yeah."

"Mental, that woman." Ron looked disgusted. "Mate, you've got to tell McGonagall. Dumbledore'll be pissed. Get her fired."

Hermione started laughing uncontrollably.

"No." She chuckled. "Don't you see, Ron? It doesn't even make a difference. She's got the entire Ministry covering for her, plus the Prophet. If anything, it'll serve to get Dumbledore sacked quicker, not the other way around."

There was silence for a moment until Ron said, "Well, there's got to be something we can do, though, Mione. Right? There always is."

"Sure," said Hermione. She was still staring at Harry's bloody hand, never having taken her eyes off it. "You can go to Madam Pomfrey and ask for Essence of Dittany or something else against infections. Make sure Harry's hand heals properly. That's about it, though."

She stood up. She felt dizzy. "You know what, why don't you go and do that right now. I think I'm going to take a walk outside, I don't feel too well."

She left the Common Room before any of the two had a chance to speak up.

 **.oOXOo.**

It was almost twilight, and the entire Hogwarts grounds glowed with the evening light. The majority of students were making their way into the castle at this time of day rather than _out_ , and for good reason too, since it was easy to lose oneself on the gigantic grounds once darkness had spread, but Hermione simply couldn't find it in herself to care.

Umbridge had hurt Harry.

Hermione couldn't decide which was worse. The fact that a teacher at Hogwarts possessed the power to physically harm students and get away with it, or the fact that Dumbledore was virtually powerless against it.

The fact that she would most likely only pass her Defense OWL with great trouble and fall behind on practical coursework certainly seemed to pale in comparison.

Either way, she felt like she was about to collapse from the shock of it all.

She ran, ran away from the Castle, from Umbridge, her class, her power; she could see Hagrid's hut in the distance, deserted, cold, without the usual rings of smoke that left its chimney to assert her that the gamekeeper was in fact alive and well. Looking at it now was almost physically painful, and so she ran into another direction.

Turning right, she passed a group of fifth-year Slytherins including Draco Malfoy and mentally readied herself for the condescending words to come.

They didn't.

As she ran past Draco simply looked at her, something vaguely pitiful and vulnerable in his eyes.

Strange.

She ran on.

And all the time, Harry's hand, covered in blood from his teacher's punishment, the senseless, ignorant words cut deep into his flesh, just another scar that needn't have existed, seemed burned into her mind.

 _I must not tell lies._

Hermione laughed. It seemed ironic that Harry had written the lines and not Umbridge or the Minister himself; it certainly would have been more fitting.

Finally, she came to a stop. The Black Lake lay in front of her, peacefully, as if nothing could disturb it.

Enviable, really.

She found a quiet spot hidden by some bushes where she could be sure she would be neither disturbed nor found. All she needed was some time to think. Alone. Then, everything would be alright.

She removed her shoes and sat, dipping her bare feet into the chilling water, closing her eyes and trying to slow her breathing. Relax.

Inhale. Exhale.

She shouldn't be getting herself worked up like this. No, absolutely not. It simply wouldn't do. She wouldn't get Umbridge to make her react this strongly. She had to be rational, logical, form a plan. She couldn't allow herself to be ruled by her emotions.

Inhale. Exhale.

Alright. Plan. Where to start? Obviously, Defense was bound to be completely useless this year. And if Umbridge wouldn't teach her… well, then she would have to teach herself. Good thing, too, probably. One day there was bound to be a battle between them and You-Know-Who, and she was almost completely sure that even NEWT-level spells wouldn't cut it then.

Inhale.

She shouldn't tell Ron and Harry about that yet though. No, not yet. She couldn't even really trust herself to be in control when with Umbridge — how could she possibly expect the boys to not somehow reveal everything during one of their tantrums? Really, the last thing any of them needed was more trouble with Umbridge.

Then again, the Golden Trio seemed to attract trouble like magnets anyway.

 _"_ _Greetings."_

Exhale.

Hermione opened her eyes. Had Malfoy changed his mind about leaving her alone? Sighing, she slowly turned around, into the direction of the speaker, and found absolutely nothing there except of the bushes, her shoes and a great big snake.

A snake.

She didn't notice that she had lost her balance due to the shock until her elbows, in reflex, prevented her from falling rather ungracefully into the grass.

"What," was her intellectual response.

Someone had to be tricking her. Hermione stood up as if in great haste all of a sudden, searching her surroundings. Yes, that was it. The twins, probably. The twins. What a strange reaction she had had. As if the snake had talked to her. Silly, really. Embarrassing.

Her surroundings were empty.

 _"_ _Looking for someone in particular?"_

There was nobody. Just her and the great snake, the pure black snake with the startling orange eyes that were dangerously close to crimson. Its voice deep and amused, as if it wanted to laugh at her but couldn't since it was a fucking _snake_. The near three meter long snake that looked like, well, death personified. The snake she was having a conversation with.

She pinched herself, but didn't wake up.

"Alright, Fred, George, very funny. You can come out now."

No-one came.

She must have lost her mind while running. It must have flown out of her head like one grand dandelion seed and headed straight for the clouds.

Hermione Granger was a lot of things, but she wasn't a parselmouth. It just wasn't possible. And still, here she was now, talking to a snake.

 _"_ _If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're purposely avoiding my company,"_ the snake hissed.

She suddenly remembered that said reptile had been talking to her and collected her manners.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ she finally replied, albeit wearily. _"I.. I didn't mean to insult you. It's just- I've just never talked to a snake before. I'm just…well, a bit…surprised."_

 _"_ _That much was obvious,"_ the snake said.

Her breathing halted as suddenly, the snake slithered forward until it rested about half a meter in front of her. It seemed to be almost effortlessly that it lifted itself up until its eyes were staring at Hermione at the height of a small first-year, examining her closely.

She shivered.

 _"Was there something you wanted?"_ she asked timidly.

 _"_ _That,"_ the snake hissed, _"I believe, is for me to know and for you to find out."_

Summoning all of her Gryffindor bravery, she stared the animal in the eyes and huffed. _"Is there a particular reason you're not telling me or are you getting off on this?"_

 _"I have my reasons,"_ the snake said shrewdly.

 _"Illuminate me, then."_

But the snake just looked back at her silently, the amusement still in its eyes, though now greater.

 _"_ _My, if not for the minor drawback of being a boneless reptile, you would have made a marvelous politician."_

Hermione cursed inwardly. She had always thought that it was prejudiced to make snakes the house animals of Slytherin — but now, staring at the uncooperative snake in front of her that seemed to even delight in not telling her something when she wanted to know, she discarded all her previous thoughts on the matter.

There was silence for another moment. And another. And another.

Stupid snake. As if she didn't have enough problems as it was! She could literally feel her hatred for the animal and anything it symbolized increase by the second.

 _"Well, since you're obviously just going to try and unnerve me further,"_ she took a deep breath, _"don't hold it against me that I'm going to leave. See you later. Or not. Whatever. Go and annoy someone else. Bye."_

Hermione grabbed her shoes and quickly put them on. To her surprise and relief, the snake did not even move as it watched her in silence.

She was almost five meters away from it when she heard its hiss, distorted from the distance: _"Maybe goodbye won't last as long as you hope."_

Hermione didn't look back.

 **.oOXOo.**

"You alright?" Harry asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Hermione."

"Well," she said, "I did see Nick on my way back."

She simply couldn't tell the truth. Not to Harry, not to Ron, not to anyone. She had decided that on her way back to the castle. She still remembered the way Harry had been ostracized in his second year for the very same ability that she now possessed. And either way, it was probably for the best if she just ignored it anyway.

There were other, bigger things that needed focusing on.

Like Umbridge. Or Harry's hand, which was even now _still_ bleeding profusely.

What could this one occurence possibly matter in the great scheme of things?

"Ronald Weasley!" she screeched, seeing that the latter was still not treated and gratefully using it as a distraction. "I've been gone for at least thirty minutes! Why didn't you ask Pomfrey for something against infections like I've asked you to? Do you want the wound not to heal?"

Ron hurried off towards the hospital wing at that, only to return with Essence of Dittany fifteen minutes later. Hermione applied it to Harry's still bloody hand slowly, rubbing it onto the cuts with circular hand movements.

She didn't knit clothing for the elves that night.

She went to bed early, though in the end she found herself unable to sleep. So she waited until she was sure that everyone was deeply asleep, snuck into the boys' dorms, grabbed Harry's invisibility cloak and snuck into the library. She was Hermione Granger, after all.

"Accio parseltongue books," she whispered.

A total of two books came flying at her, and a pang of disappointment filled her, though at least ten more books from the Restricted Section tried to bypass the magical barrier that Dumbledore had set up two weeks ago after incidents of students breaking into it had become more and more fervent. Hermione sighed. She would have to talk some teacher into giving her a pass for it.

"Finite incantatem," she whispered, watching the Restricted books drop to the ground as the summoning charm lost its power. Then, "Resortio." Within seconds, the books were at their original places.

It troubled her that the vast majority of books on the subject were in the Restricted Section. In her opinion, it just emphasized what a terrible ability it was. But either way, it was hers, and there was no harm done in researching.

She inspected the two books that she did have access too. "Rare Magical Abilities And Their Wielders" by Leona McKinnon and "An Encyclopedia of Serpents" by Heracles Waterstone. She opened the book about Magical Abilities first, quickly finding the page about parseltongue.

 _"Parseltongue'" is the term given to the language that a person with the ability to converse with snakes ("parselmouth") uses. It is the oldest known rare magical ability, since numerous sources claim that Salazar Slytherin himself was a parselmouth. It is a hereditary ability, and as such, can only be found in wizards or witches that are related to Slytherin._

Just as she had remembered. She sighed. There was no way in hell that she was related to both Harry and You-Know-Who. There had to be some other explanation.

 _The ability has often been associated with the dark arts in the past due to its association to Slytherin, who, due to a plethora of sources, carries the title of "Most Influential Dark Wizard In History." This prejudice finds further "proof" in the fact that usually, only pureblooded families carry the necessary genes for parseltongue; these tend to be exceptionally outspoken against muggles or muggleborns and for the Dark Arts in general. There exists no historical proof that any muggleborn or even halfblood ever possessed the ability, and no evidence suggesting that is ever going to occur._

Hermione sighed in displeasure, picking up the second book.

 _"Parseltongue" is the name given to the ability to talk to snakes and serpents of all kinds. It is found only in distant relations of Salazar Slytherin, who is the oldest known parselmouth. Though it is supposed to only enable wizards and witches to converse with serpents, there are cases known in which parselmouths were able to talk to dragons, lizards and other reptiles._

 _Since only few people still possess the ability, there are only very few uses for it nowadays. One certain way in which it could come in handy, however, is in relation to Slytherin's legendary Chamber of Secrets, a hidden chamber in Hogwarts that is said to hold a monster. According to a transcript of Salazar Slytherin himself that was recently discovered in Ireland, it can only be discovered and opened by a parseltongue._

 _The Chamber was once opened in 1943, when third-year Gryffindor student Rubeus Hagrid was found guilty of the murder of the muggleborn Myrtle Warren through an arachnid. Since then, there have been no further incidents._

Waterstone went on about other historical examples of parseltongues for several pages before concluding that it was one of the most pure magical abilities in existence, since it only appeared in families that had no links to muggles genetically at all.

Frustration filled her mind as Hermione closed the book. She had more questions after reading the books than she'd had before. According to both books, it was absolutely impossible for both Harry and her to be parselmouths, and yet, they were. Of course, it was still more logical for Harry to be one than her; after all, the Potter line had been pureblooded up until James had married Lily Evans, and it was possible that they had married some relation of Slytherin's on the way.

But for her?

She was as muggleborn as they came, after all.

And still, no answers on why she would have only now developed the ability.

Extremely frustrated and increasingly tired, Hermione put away the books and made her way back to Gryffindor tower, putting the cloak back into Harry's trunk before returning to her own dormitory and falling asleep the second she hit the mattress. Maybe it really would be better to just ignore her new ability.

 **.oOXOo.**

She was dead tired when she woke up the next morning, but fortunately, it was a Saturday, and so she slept in.

"Sorry," she told Harry and Ron when she finally joined them in the Common Room nearing noon. "Knitting all those hats and socks must've really knocked me out."

She hated lying to them, but she supposed in this situation it really was preferable to the truth. It would just distract them from their homework, after all — and they really were seriously behind. Either way, it wasn't as if it was anything fatal she was hiding.

No, no harm done in lying.

"'s okay," Ron said. "Um…so, you planning to do some reading today?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Sure," she said. "Since when do you care, though?"

Harry coughed awkwardly. "Actually, Hermione, that's Ron's way of asking you if it's okay if we get some Quidditch practice done now before the first one as a team, just the two of us."

She shrugged, though disappointed that she wouldn't get to spend time with them. She had hoped that after yesterday evening, she wouldn't have to spend time alone again. "I-I suppose." As an after-thought, she added: "Shouldn't you get some homework done though? You're way behind."

"Later," Ron waved her off.

"You sure you're fine with it…?" Harry trailed off.

"As long as you get your homework done," she shrugged. "Last thing you need is another detention, Harry."

"Sure," he said. "Right, so.. see you in the evening."

"See you."

But they had already disappeared through the portrait hole, and she felt more lonely than ever.

 **.oOXOo.**

Hermione had planned to spend the rest of the day in the library, finishing off her homework, shutting up the loneliness with work for a few hours; but when she had finished it all several hours before lunch —even the extra-credit assignments— she was forced to find a new activity.

Bored, she searched her bag for anything interesting, not intending to leave the library just yet as just the thought of spending the afternoon in the Common Room on her own made her cringe. At least, in the library Hermione had books for company.

She found nothing, save a hairbrush, a stray pen and some rolls of parchment. Eventually though, as she dug a little deeper, she found her copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard sitting at the bottom of her bag.

She sighed, opening it to the first page. She'd have to read it at some point anyway, so why not now?

She read the whole thing within the course of roughly three hours, stopping only once to go to lunch, where she planned to check up with Harry and Ron. But they hadn't been there; likely still on the Quidditch pitch. She had entered the Great Hall, found her friends absent at the Gryffindor table, sighed, felt the loneliness blossom inside her, and made her way straight back to the library. And so her break had been relatively short-lived.

Now she was staring down at the book accusingly, having read the last sentence just a few seconds ago.

"What a loud of rubbish," she commented.

If not for the fact that she still needed it for her classes and OWL revision, Hermione would have probably set the damn thing on fire and be done with it. Apart from being almost excruciating to read, next to all of its information was just wrong. It went against everything she had ever learnt in her previous four years at Hogwarts, stating that while theoretical knowledge in the subject was useful, its practical use could almost never be justified.

Hermione had the feeling that Slinkhard would have been more productive if he had charmed every single hair on his body a different color instead of writing that atrocious book.

"It makes sense, though," she told herself. "She doesn't want us to know anything. The Ministry wants us to be stupid so we can't defend ourselves."

She remembered the train of thought she'd had just before the snake had spoken to her, pulling her out of her thoughts for good. If she wasn't going to learn anything through Umbridge, she'd need to teach herself. It was the only way.

Well. There was something to do.

She stood up, making her way towards Madam Pince. She didn't dare to use the summoning spell when there were other people in the library; she'd witnessed students getting thrown out for less after all, and she didn't know where to go if she got thrown out of the library. She'd feel lonely in the Common Room, and after yesterday, she didn't particularly fancy going outside to the lake again.

"Can I help you with something, dear?" Madam Pince asked once Hermione had reached her desk.

"As a matter of fact you can," Hermione replied. "I need all Defense textbooks you have for fifth-years and up, save all by Wilbert Slinkhard, please."

The librarian shot her a slightly annoyed look before opening a cupboard behind her and, after some minutes of excessive searching, pulled out a meter and a half long piece of parchment, ungracefully throwing it into Hermione's open arms.

Obviously, she wouldn't get them for her.

"That's all the Defense textbooks we have, including exact location," she said, sitting back down. "Go and take whatever suits you, will you? I just need that list back by the end of the day."

Hermione Granger thanked the woman politely and got to work.

 **.oOXOo.**

By the time dinner rolled around, she was very satisfied with herself. She had worked through another two sets of textbooks, one from the early 1980's, and another exceptionally detailed one from the early 1940's by a woman named Leto Catmull. She felt like she'd never been more prepared for a class that didn't include an exam, and yet, she knew that it would not get her in Umbridge's good books if she let her know.

She'd already decided to keep it from Ron and Harry, too, so that was what she did. It wasn't a hard decision, since she figured they would not have really taken interest anyway. That decision proved to be right when throughout the entire dinner, the boys talked about one thing and one thing only.

Quidditch.

She pretended to listen in, but in her mind, she was far away, thinking of the textbooks from other time periods she would want to read still. There was one from the twenties she wanted to work through that night, but by the time dinner was over, Ron practically dragged her to the Common Room.

"Bloody hell, Mione, you study too much! I'm sure the library won't go up in flames if you don't spend every single hour of the day there."

"For your information, I was only there because you two were busy practicing," she practically hissed back.

"And who are you to critize my study habits, Ron Weasley? You haven't even started on your homework!"

"Hey! It's not like I was just sitting there doing nothing!" he defended himself. "Quidditch's important, too!"

"Sure, sure," she said. "Mimbulus mimbletonia!"

The portrait hole opened and they entered the Gryffindor dorms. She tried again to get away to the library, but this time it was Harry that told her that one night in the Common Room wouldn't hurt her.

Sighing, she resigned herself to her fate.

 **.oOXOo.**

When she woke up Sunday morning, she made her way straight towards the library, skipping breakfast. The library had just opened when she got there, and Madam Pince was in the process of sitting down behind her desk when Hermione walked up to her.

"Something I can do for you?" Madam Pince inquired.

"I need the list from yesterday again," she said. "If that's possible."

Madam Pince, a short woman with gray hair and round glasses, sighed.

"As a matter of fact, it's not."

Hermione's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"After you left yesterday the library's list of textbooks for — well, all courses actually — were heavily revised. A bunch of older books were removed, lots of copies of the new ones added."

"What?" she asked. „Why?"

"Don't know," the librarian said. "Take it up with that Ministry woman if you've got a problem."

"That Ministry woman?"

"Yes," she said. "You know, that short one all in pink. Don't know why's she's got the power to do it, but I checked with Dumbledore and he said he'd known it would happen anyway."

Hermione took in a sharp breath.

"So you can go and complain to her, if you want. I wouldn't hold it against you, actually. She's the worst, that woman."

"Dumbledore let her?"

"Said something about some educational reform," the gray-haired woman nodded. "Sounded really serious."

She gulped.

"Thank you anyway," Hermione told her.

Madam Pince waved it off. "Just don't tell anyone I told you, will you?"

"Of course not."

She walked away, walking towards the section where she had gotten the textbooks from yesterday.

Umbridge must have realized that the dedicated students would still be able to study from the older textbooks. Maybe she had seen Hermione in the library? Teachers often went there to plan their lessons, she recalled, and now that she thought about it, she swore she could remember a flash of pink two rows away from her yesterday.

What dedication, though, to have it all removed and replaced within a single night! How scared Umbridge must be to think that just that one Sunday more of the usual books would somehow endanger her and her system.

Then again, all tyrants were afraid of their people.

What a coward that woman was, she thought to herself, turning a corner. What a despicable, loathsome coward.

Only to find an entire row of Slinkhard books staring back at her where yesterday she had found the old textbooks.

She found a chair and sat down distraughtly. This was it. The woman allowed no learning, tyrannized her students, encouraged lying, hurt her students, and to top it all off, she threw out books and replaced it with rubbish.

What kind of people just threw out old books?

Umbridge was doing absolutely everything in her power to control every single aspect of her students' lives. Hermione wouldn't be surprised if next she somehow managed to tell people who they were allowed to talk to and who not.

But not her.

She would do everything she could to make sure that Umbridge wouldn't succeed. At least not with her. She wouldn't let Umbridge get to her. She would learn. She would read. And for Merlin's sake, she would fight back.

Screw S.P.E.W. The elves would live. Most of them hadn't really liked her ideas anyway, and she had had a hunch that it had been Dobby who picked up her hats and socks instead of the other elves all along. But this— this endangered the knowledge and therefore futures of hundreds of students. This was the future generation of witches and wizards Umbridge was corrupting.

And she, Hermione Jean Granger, wouldn't let her.

But for now, since the foul woman seemed to be nowhere in sight —fortunately for her— and it was best to plan before attacking, she picked up Hogwarts: A History and flipped open a random page.

The book flipped open on a page on Emeric the Evil. She closed the book again, opening it up to a new page. She had just learned about Emeric in Binns' class, and she had virtually no desire to read about him again.

The Chamber of Secrets, the title read this time. Hermione moaned. Of all the pages, it simply had had to open the one in the small encyclopedia in the very back that reminded her of the other problem she was trying so very hard to ignore.

 _Said to have been built by Salazar Slytherin shortly before he left Hogwarts, the Chamber of Secrets is a chamber supposedly hidden on Hogwarts grounds. Many sources claim that a monster lives inside its walls. It has been a topic of discussion for many centuries wether the Chamber exists or not, since it has never been discovered even though it has been searched for excessively._

 _According to popular opinion, the Chamber has been made immune to Hogwarts wards by complicated Dark Magic installed by Slytherin himself._

Hermione held her breath. Immune to Hogwarts wards, the words repeated in her head. Complicated dark magic.

The thought formed before she could stop it. Umbridge wouldn't teach her how to defend herself. She could study theory in the library, but she would be in need of practical practice in the subject too. The Chamber contained dark magic and if Umbridge wasn't going to teach them how to defend themselves against the Dark Arts, then the Chamber was as practical of a lesson as it could get.

No. No! Absolutely not. She just couldn't. It was incredibly dangerous, and Merlin knew what trouble she'd be in if she was caught. A Gryffindor muggleborn caught opening the Chamber of Secrets! She could imagine the scandal.

But on the other hand, why would anyone ever know? Ron and Harry were busy with the Quidditch tryouts, they'd never even know she'd been gone. This was as fine a chance as she would ever get. Plus, the basilisk was dead and she knew for a fact that you couldn't be killed by looking a dead one in the eye.

It would be purely for research purposes, too. What if Slytherin had hidden something else there? It would make sense, too, since he'd thought only his heir would ever see it. And how would Harry have known? He'd hardly ever left the main part of it, there could be so, so much more.

So much she could learn…

But there were so many downsides. For one, there would be a large, rotting corpse. That couldn't be too cozy. And how could she really tell that there wasn't anymore trouble down there? She was a muggleborn after all, maybe there were wards against that kind of thing?

She would have continued this internal debate, but her feet were already moving towards the exit of the library, apparently having already decided for her. She sighed, closing her eyes. She would be able to learn so much, maybe even more than normal Hogwarts lesson were ever going to be able to teach her, but then again, was that worth the risk?

Then again, wasn't that what being a Gryffindor was all about?

She shut up the voice at the back of her head that in an almost hissing, sarcastic tone told her that going down to the Chamber of Secrets was certainly not something that made a person particularly Gryffindor.

Against all better judgement, she just couldn't resist the temptation of the possible knowledge.

So much for ignoring her parselmouth-status.

Once again, Hogwarts: A History had held all the answers.

 **.oOXOo.**

She reached Myrtle's bathroom within the course of a few minutes, all the while trembling with both fear and anticipation. Fortunately for her, Myrtle seemed to be somewhere else at the moment. It was a lucky coincidence, since it would have been problematic if the ghost had watched her descent; surely she would have told a teacher straight away.

Then again, could she have really blamed her?

Hermione made her way towards the sinks before she could change her mind. It didn't take long to find the one with the tiny snake etched into it. She rubbed her hand across it, closing her eyes. Readying herself.

 _"Open,"_ she whispered before she could stop herself.

Hermione jumped in reflex as the sink made a loud noise and shifted away, revealing a large, black hole at the bottom of the floor. She gulped.

She wondered if Tom Riddle had felt this way too when he had first opened it. No, that had to have been different. He would have been euphoric. The monster was still alive in his time, after all, and there were people to kill. Hermione was doing it out of necessity. To learn. That was different on so many levels. Justifiable, even.

Hermione gulped again, remembering the startling yellow eyes and then nothing when she had been petrified by the basilisk in her second year.

No, she couldn't think about that. Not now. Now she had to decide, and quick. Myrtle could reappear in her bathroom any minute now, and if she saw Hermione or even just the opened Chamber entrance, it would all be over. This was the time to leave and never come back, or jump forward, into darkness.

Hermione closed her eyes. She thought of Umbridge. She thought of her first lesson with the woman, how she had refused to read, not following teacher's orders for the first time in her life; how Umbridge had given Harry detention even though he had done no wrong; she thought of Harry's wounded hand, I must not tell lies etched into his flesh, too deep to ever heal properly though she wouldn't have dared to tell him; of the library, the thrown-away books, denied knowledge, the Slinkhard books, all the students that wouldn't learn a thing—

And all of a sudden, the floor beneath her feet was gone and she fell, deeper and deeper—

Hermione laughed, knowing she had made the right decision—

She yelled _"Close,"_ hoping Myrtle hadn't seen—

And she smiled, imagining Umbridge's expression if only she could see this—

Though she most sincerely hoped she couldn't—

Blackness, darkness everywhere—

And then with a thump she had something beneath her again, cool, polished stone, going, down, down, and she wondered, absentmindedly, while screaming, would Slytherin have really installed a _slide_ of all things in his legendary Chamber of Secrets…?

And she landed.

Whatever she landed on was not nearly as polished a surface as the one in the —slide?— had been, and she let out a little yelp of pain. She looked down. Beneath her were hundreds, possibly thousands of tiny skeletons, mice, as she suspected. Hermione would have yelled in terror, but then again, she knew there would be way worse than mice skeleton where she was going.

There was light, but it was scarce. She cast a quick "Lumos maxima!", then walked forward. There was a great snake skin and what looked like tons of rock here, but really, she had thought it would be worse. At least she hadn't been skinned by random dark curses yet.

Eventually she reached what seemed to be a round door. There were several stone snakes carved into it; she understood immediately.

 _"Open,"_ she hissed again. Another stone snake appeared out of nowhere and slid around the outline of the door, effectively unlocking it. Slytherin had really used his creativity, she had to give him that. It took half a minute in total, then the spectacle was over and the door flew open.

She walked in.

The first thing she noticed was the smell—or, more accurately, the astonishing lack thereof. The second thing was the basilisk skeleton. It really had decayed rather quickly. The eyes that had once petrified her where now gone forever. Not that she wasn't grateful; she wasn't sure to what extent she could have stomached a half-decayed, putrid snake corpse for a longer period of time.

Hermione looked around, taking in her surroundings. There was a stone path in the middle of the room, with about one meter deep water left and right. At the end of the path was an astonishingly large statue of the head of a man with a beard that resembled Dumbledore's. It had to be Slytherin. The basilisk lay right in front of it, or rather, what was left of it.

Though this main Chamber certainly made for a rather impressive sight, magic-wise Hermione found herself quickly disappointed. She had come here to study, to learn even though Umbridge was doing everything in her power to prevent such a practice, and there was absolutely nothing here, magic-wise, for her to analyze or even defend herself against.

She didn't know what she had expected, but this was not it.

"Maybe there's a hidden backroom or something," she thought out loud.

There couldn't have been anything to her left or right; all there was was the water and a variety of other statues, though none of them seemed to have a secret entrance next to or behind them. To be sure she cast a quick magic revealing spell to check for any hiding charms, but there were none. So Hermione walked forward, toward the grand Slytherin statue.

Once again she cast the spell, but yet again, she was disappointed.

She checked its front, back and sides, but there really was absolutely nothing. She couldn't help but feel disappointed. All this trouble, this anxiety, this fear, for this—?

But…

Maybe all that was needed was another sample of parseltongue? It could very well be, after all, that parselmagic was a different branch of magic than human magic; and therefore wouldn't be detected by her human spell. That would have been almost too easy, really, but she couldn't help but try.

 _"Reveal your secret chamber, Slytherin,"_ she uttered, sounding rather unconfident and, in her own opinion, ridiculous. Not that it mattered, because at that very moment, the mouth of the statue of Slytherin lowered itself, revealing a long, black path.

Hermione, suddenly euphoric, went in. She had to crawl through at first, but near the end of the blackness, only illuminated by her lumos, she was able to walk normally. Finally, the path split into two directions. She walked left; and she walked another good two minutes before she reached what seemed to be a large, empty room.

"This must have been where the basilisk was most of the time," she remarked, covering her nose with her hand. It smelled of feces.

Hermione turned back around, uninterested all of a sudden. Maybe on the right side of the path, there would be something interesting.

This guess proved to be correct. Once she reached the place where the path had split and walked on in the other direction, the path almost instantly changed. After several meters the cold stone walls and floor were replaced by wooden flooring and dark green wallpaper, obviously charmed not to decay; it was obvious that this hallway—because this was what is was, rather than a simple path—was meant for human use, and that excited her.

Finally, she reached a door and opened it without hesitation.

She noticed her eyes widen as they drank in the sight before her. And what a sight it was! The walls were covered in bookcases, filled with notebooks, regular, though extremely old books and disgarded, single pieces of parchment. To her left stood a large leather couch, fourties-style, clad in black; it was certainly a very nice, thoughtful touch of modernism in between all the medieval books. She reckoned Riddle must have added it, and while she felt quite glum at the thought, she was more than grateful for its addition once she sat down.

The walls, like in the hallway, were covered in dark green wallpapers; only that these seemed to be of even richer color, made from what looked like abnormally expensive material. The floor was covered in long, pure black floorboards; the colors, all in all, in perfect harmony.

All in all, although she felt an odd sense of guilt at the thought, she was stunned by the sheer elegance of the room in such a manner that she thought it wouldn't have looked even minimally different had she had to decorate it herself.

Then, remembering what she had come from, she looked around, noticing with the greatest possible satisfaction that the contents of this room alone would give her enough material to study for the rest of her school years.

A victorious smile stole its way onto her lips.

She stood up and walked straight towards the first shelf she could find. A maybe fifty year old notebook, bound in the same black leather as Riddle's diary, caught her eye. Her hand hovered over it, not quite daring to pick it up for fear of any unknown magic it might possess.

"Oh, pick it up, will you?" a deep voice sounded from the corner, causing her to jump. "I'm sure Tom wouldn't mind much."

Her blood boiled with fear at the blasé mention of You-Know-Who. She turned towards the sound, suddenly fearful, the smile vanished.

There, in the corner, hung a large portrait of the man who had built the Chamber. She immediately recognized him from the statue. He had dark brown hair, cut into perfect order, and near black eyes. No beard adorned his aristocratic face though, and Hermione figured that the portrait must have been made many years before he had built the Chamber.

She forgot the books and focused all her attention on him.

"Salazar Slytherin." She felt torn between feeling honored to be in the presence of one of the founders or hateful since that very same founder was Slytherin, the very founder of pureblood supremacy.

"Well, obviously," the man chuckled, a tone of arrogance to his answer. Hermione decided for the second option. "If you don't mind me asking, is there a reason for your visit?" He thought for a second, then added, "And how's Tom faring? Is he still among the living? I haven't seen that boy for decades!"

Hermione sincerely hoped that portraits couldn't cast magic towards people existing on the non-portrait plane, or she was certain she wouldn't ever leave the Chamber again.

"No reason," she told him nervously, weighing every single word. "Except, well, you see…there's some things I was… hoping to learn…" She gulped. "Tom… well, yes, he is quite alive, you see. And I would say that Tom is faring very well, actually."

This had to be the most bizarre situation she had ever had the displeasure to find herself in, and she had once seen a boggart of Professor Snape in women's clothing.

"Really?" Slytherin asked, interest suddenly peaked. He leaned forward slightly and looked her straight into the eyes with a gaze that said, I know what you're up to. "Tell me, how is my heir doing?"

Hermione really didn't know what she was supposed to answer to that, especially since she had just answered almost the same question moments ago. Meanwhile, she felt his intrigued gaze burn into her face.

"Gathering followers," she said, deciding that it probably wouldn't hurt to tell him the truth— or at least, some parts of it. It would probably even please him, stop him from asking more unwanted questions. "Spreading fear and panic. Hunting muggleborns and blood traitors."

Slytherin seemed to be pleased with that answer, since he didn't pose a third question to follow his second one. Then again, he was the very epitome of cunning; how in Merlin's beard was she supposed to know what was going on in his mind? It scared her.

Eventually he told her, decidedly more merry than before, "Well, you were looking for that notebook weren't you? I saw the way you looked at it. Go on, take it, as I said I'm sure Tom wouldn't mind."

"A-Alright," Hermione said.

She almost deadly certain that the notebook held similar magic to the diary now, for why else would Slytherin so willingly offer it to some intruder? But she wasn't about to start an argument about it; the cleverest thing to do now was to take the damn thing, get out of the Chamber before Slytherin decided to kill her even quicker than through the aid of You-Know-Who's notebook, and set out to destroy it.

Now, that would be one hell of a practical lesson.

She walked towards the shelves again, picking up the book that she knew for certain now was Riddle's. This time she didn't hesitate, though fear was pulsing through her like never before. She remembered what the diary had done to Ginny and gulped. Meanwhile, Slytherin smiled.

It felt strange in her hand, both right and wrong at the same time.

"Tell Tom my greetings when you see him, will you?"

Hermione froze, suddenly feeling as if she was going to be sick. Had Slytherin somehow informed You-Know-Who of all people that she had entered the Chamber? The mere notion sounded ridiculous to her ears, but then again, she really had no idea what Slytherin was capable of or to what lengths he would go just for a little entertainment after Merlin knew how many lonely years in this study.

Maybe the Dark Lord had a portrait of himself hanging in his bedroom, and that very portrait was informing him this very instant… was that even possible? Oh, damn her and her non-existing knowledge on magical portraits!

Either way, Hermione saw one option and one option only for the near future, and while it pained her that this option led away from the what must have been hundreds of other books, it led straight out of that door.

"I-I will," she replied, her fingers trembling. The notebook almost fell out of her hands, but she managed to catch it at the last moment. "I think I should.. go now."

"Of course," Slytherin nodded. The smile on his face was starting give her the creeps. "Well, it was nice seeing you. Goodbye, my dear."

"Goodbye."

It was just a whisper, but the second it had left her lips, she was out of the door and running for her life.

She should have just stuck to her plan and ignored it.

 **.oOXOo.**

In the end, of course, You-Know-Who didn't turn up out of thin air to torture and maim her, but she didn't know wether that was due to chance, Hogwarts wards or because Slytherin's threat had been empty. She never would, though, since she had promised herself the very instant she was standing in Myrtle's bathroom again, alive and well, that she never would go down to that god forsaken place again. And she was quite happy about it, too.

She had been to the library earlier on, and, with more luck than she would have dared to imagine, found a book on parselmagic including several spells that was not from the Restricted Section. To her immense happiness, it had even included a parseltongue charm to reveal magic; much like the equivalent of the human one she had cast in the chamber.

Of course, once back in her dormitory she had cast it on the diary — only to find out with the greatest possible surprise that there wasn't a single trace of hidden magic to it.

She was lying in bed now. The other girls were asleep already, but Hermione had cast silencing and hiding spells around her bed, inspecting Tom Riddle's notebook under the light of a lumos. It seemed to be safe, after all.

It was written in parselscript; that much she knew for certain. Earlier on it had fallen out of her bag while the other girls were getting ready for bed and before she had had a chance to pick it up and pack it away again, Lavender had already asked what "these weird scribbly signs" were. Hermione had been momentarily dumbfounded, about to point out that there were no scribbly signs, only normal letters, when she had instantaneously understood.

Fortunately Ginny hadn't been in the room, or Hermione was sure she would have recognized that something was amiss immediately. The diary and the notebook were identical from the outside, after all.

Now it was one o'clock in the morning and she was reading the fifty year old notes of teenage You-Know-Who. Most if it wasn't too interesting or revealing; here and there, however, there were some interesting, though morbid and near psychopathic parts. A recorded experiment in which he had cast the Cruciatus curse on some escaped toad in the Chamber, for instance, only to find that the curse had not been picked up by Hogwarts wards and the Chamber was therefore a safe zone.

A plethora of things concerning Voldemort too, things Hermione was sure Dumbledore would have killed to have. The original page on which he had created multiple anagrams of his full name, only to end up with I Am Lord Voldemort on his thirteenth try. Six consecutive pages of Dark Mark designs. A page with possible names for his followers, of which he had apparently picked Knights of Walpurgis first, only to change it to Death Eaters way after his Hogwarts times. Random notes on how to overthrow the Ministry and what to do afterwards on every other page.

And yet, Dumbledore would never see them. If Hermione ever handed them to him, she would be forced to explain how she had gotten them in the first place, and that alone would get her into greater trouble than she would dare to imagine. Then again, it was not like he could read the notebook's contents anyway.

Despite its disturbing contents, however, it was an intriguing read. Now and again Tom Riddle's neat, orderly script was replaced by a strangely familiar, curly one. Hermione's lips curved at the mere thought that Riddle would have had a confidante so trusted that he would go ever these things with him. Or her. She could just see them in front of her inner eye, bickering in a friendly way about world domination and homicide.

In a strange way, it made her almost regretful that she was born too late to ever find out who this mystery person was.

But there were other things, too. A bad drawing of a snake curled up around a smiling cat —complete with artist's signature and all— made her laugh out so loud she was suddenly very glad she had put up the silencing charm, although her laughter stopped abruptly when she realized that she was laughing at He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's early artistic efforts.

And, of course, spells. Self-invented, she assumed, since he usually described step by step how they had come to be. Like the world domination ideas, they popped up on every other page, although more frequently. Hermione felt impressed that Riddle had been so talented in spell creating still during his Hogwarts years — from what she had heard, the majority of adults were unable to ever invent a single spell.

She was astounded by many of them, surprised more times than one by Riddle's creativity. Ignem mitto, for instance, a spell that apparently sent a ball of fire to a location of the caster's choosing up to ten kilometers away, made her eyebrows rise into her hairline. One spell, however, caught her attention more than anything else.

It sat at the bottom of a page listing up muggleborns he intended for the basilisk to kill; it was written in the middle of a neat circle, obviously meant to be emphasized.

 _Anagnorisis (parselt.) — ultimate revenge._

She shouldn't have been intrigued by it, and she knew. The mere mention of any spell by any form of You-Know-Who that brought "revenge" should have her mentally running for her life. It didn't, though.

She didn't ponder on it. There were a lot of things about her that didn't add up lately, so why should one single out-of-line sentiment be enough to disturb her?

Hermione read on for a few more minutes, then fell asleep with the notebook in hand.

 **.oOXOo.**

The next morning at breakfast, Hermione received the shock of her life. She had barely sat down, still sleepy from last night's reading, when Ron all but threw that morning's Daily Prophet at her, whispering "Bloody mental" every few seconds.

The headline read, Ministry Seeks Educational Reform. Dolores Umbridge Appointed First Ever High Inquisitor.

Hermione thought of the replaced books in the library and the librarian telling her that Dumbledore had told her of an educational reform. This had to be it.

„What—?"

"It gives her the power to inspect the other professors' classes," Harry summarized, "And sack them."

"What?" She almost spilled her pumpkin juice. "But that's outrageous!"

"There's more," Ron said, looking grim. "Every time Dumbledore can't find a teacher now, the Ministry gets to choose one. That's how we got Umbridge."

"But that's — that's — simply atrocious!" Hermione buried her face in her hands. "That toad just keeps getting more and more support from the Ministry, it's absolutely horrible, did I tell you, they threw out all the old textbooks at the library so we can't learn—?"

"Gotta be honest with you there, Mione," Ron said, "You're probably the only one who seriously minds."

"But Ron! Don't you see—?"

"You know what?" Ron interrupted her, "I can't wait to see McGonagall inspected. Umbridge won't know what hit her."

Hermione huffed in annoyance at Ron's rudeness.

"Well, come along," she finally said, shooting up, "We don't want to be late if she's inspecting Snape's class."

Unfortunately, though, no Umbridge appeared in their Potions lesson, and everything passed as it usually did; in the beginning Snape handed back their latest essays, informing them that he had graded them according to OWL standards (which led Hermione to be uncharacteristically happy about the small, spiky "E" on top of hers), then they were told to brew the Draught of Peace, an unusually tricky potion to brew since it was incredibly complicated and required absurd levels of precision.

Hermione's turned out just fine; Harry's, however, was vanished by an annoyed Snape who told him that he had forgotten to add an ingredient, losing Gryffindor ten points, and Ron restarted three times before finally giving up.

The usual, however, stopped occurring the second the lesson ended.

"I will see you lot on Friday. Longbottom, you will see me for detention tonight at eight. Class dismissed."

Hermione was just in the process of standing up and leaving the classroom when Snape added, "Miss Granger, please stay behind."

She froze, trading a suspicious look with Harry and Ron. There was absolutely no reason he would ask her to talk to her.

Although, her subconscious whispered traitorously at the very back of her mind, of course she had an inkling…

"Mister Weasley, Mister Potter, this is none of your concern… and I suggest that you get going to Professor Umbridge's lesson, lest you earn yourselves another detention for tardiness."

Hermione and the boys traded another significant look before the boys made for Defense, not bothering to close the door behind them. It fell shut with a loud thump.

"I apologize that I am keeping you behind Miss Granger," Snape spoke up. His voice sounded even deeper and rawer than usually. "Please rest assured that this does not concern your appearance in my class, which is, as always, more than satisfactory."

"Then why—"

"What I am about to tell you is extremely important, girl, and extremely secret. It is absolutely essential that this knowledge does not leave this room, nobody, not even your friends Potter and Weasley may know, for if it does, it is not your, but my head on the chopping block. And while you may even enjoy that thought, this goes far beyond a mere dislike between student and professor, do you understand? This is far, far bigger."

Hermione gulped, hoping with every inch of her being that this did not involve _Tom._

The Potions Master sighed. "Since you are friends with Potter, I suppose you are aware of my… _associations_ during the First Wizarding War?"

Hermione nodded, not liking the direction in which this was going at all. "Yes, I am."

"Then are you aware too that I am still… associated thusly for the sake of the Order?"

Again she nodded, "Yes."

"Miss Granger, the information that I am about to give you… the Headmaster is not yet aware of it, nor shall he ever be. The Dark Lord only informed his hand-picked elite, keeping it a secret, Miss Granger, and were it to become public that the Headmaster is aware, I would be immediately suspected. As it is, I am taking a foolishly big risk in telling you. Do you comprehend this?"

Feeling her insides grow cold in fear, she nodded.

"I am afraid that I will require your vow on this, Miss Granger. Your Unbreakable Vow. I cannot tell you otherwise. It is too risky. I am truly sorry."

It obviously had to be a matter of grave importance for Snape to even be minimally civil towards her in the first place. And if the matter truly was that secret, Hermione wondered, then why on Earth would Snape confide in her of all people? A Gryffindor, no less? She shivered. Truly, did she even want to know? But then again, could she afford not knowing?

She obviously couldn't.

"Alright."

Professor Snape held out his left hand and she took it. With a flick of his hand, he summoned a house elf to trace thin lines around their arms with his wand.

"Do you, Hermione Jean Granger, hereby solemnly swear that you shall not disclose any information given by me, Severus Tobias Snape, on this day, October 12th 1995 to anyone you are acquainted to, or ever will make the acquaintance of, from this moment in time on until the end of your life?"

God, did that sound serious. "I do."

Snape gave her a cold, calculating look, then removed his hand from hers and banished the House Elf.

"That was satisfactory," he said, then paused. He seemed to think of how he was best going to word what he was going to say.

"Now, no-one knows why," he began, "but I am afraid that I have to tell you, Miss Granger, that as of Friday last week…"

The Professor halted. Cold sweat ran down her back.

"Just tell me," Hermione said. Quietly but determinedly.

"Miss Granger, I am sorry to tell you that as of Friday last week you have… you have, in fact, bypassed Harry Potter as the Dark Lord's most wanted person."

At first she was utterly unable to understand what her Potions Professor had just said. Numbness enveloped her like a veil. Then, when it finally lifted, her jaw dropped.

That… that-

It made no sense at all.

 _None._

It simply couldn't be. She hadn't even been in the Chamber and talked to Slytherin's portrait until Sunday. It was completely impossible.

"I… I don't understand."

"That is most unfortunate," said Snape, who appeared to be seriously relieved that he had finally told her. "Neither do I. I was hoping you would perhaps know the reasoning behind it."

None of them said anything for a while.

"He does not want you harmed," he commented seriously. "Do you really have no clue as to why? Miss Granger, if I have nothing to go on then I can truly not protect you. This is a matter of grave importance. I urge you to think."

For a moment, Hermione seriously contemplated spilling the beans about the entire parseltongue incident to Snape right then.

"I…"

But then she thought better of it. Really, she was… she felt as if someone had turned her brain all fuzzy to prevent her from forming any coherent thoughts. She was in no state to do most anything, let alone share one of her biggest secrets with one of the shiftiest people she had the misfortune of knowing. She was in no state to determine wether or not Snape was on her side, let alone think of a way to change certain parts of the story, should she want to leave certain parts out.

And who was to say that Snape wasn't a double double agent, working for You-Know-Who instead of Dumbledore?

She would deal with this later.

"I have to get to Defense, Professor, or Professor Umbridge will have my head."

Snape nodded shortly, then turned around towards his desk and wrote her a small note. "Take this to her," he said, "perhaps it will vanquish her anger."

Hermione gratefully took his note.

"Come to my office tonight at seven," Snape told her. "I shall use Legilimency on you to search for any details that you have missed, if that is fine with you, Miss Granger. It is for your safety after all."

It was not at all fine with her, but really, in what plausible way could she have explained? She nodded brusquely, then left, note in hand.

As the door closed behind her, truly, the Defense lesson was the absolute last thing on her mind. Before, everything had been relatively harmless; Umbridge at least wasn't out to kill her, and neither was her newfound parseltongue ability. Voldemort, however —and yes, now that he was out to get her she saw no use not addressing him by his name— was as real and terrible of a problem as it fucking got.

Voldemort was after her, for Godric's sake.

But why? _Why?_ There was absolutely no reason Voldemort would want her, and even less reason that he would want her more than Harry freaking Potter! Nothing had happened last Friday!

Umbridge had tortured Harry, Harry had shown her the wound, and she had run out into the open and talked to a snake. True, the snake incident was unusual, but she was sure that it had been just her and the snake, with no-one else watching. And even if there had been — _so what if she was a parselmouth?_

And what in Merlin's Beard did that matter to _Lord freaking Voldemort?_

She felt like she was missing something big.

It was all too much for her all of a sudden, and she felt like Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Why? It bothered her to no end, not knowing.

She had to hurry to Defense if she still wanted to be in time, but really, she was close to hyperventilating. Her breathing grew hasty and irregular, her heart pumping blood through her body at an unnaturally quick pace, and really, all she wanted was to sit down and cry. Or tell Ron, or Harry. Harry at least would understand.

But no, she couldn't do that. Neither of those things. If she cried now, she would be late for Defense, and Umbridge would give her detention. She didn't care about the condition of her hand, not really; what she really cared about and what made her hurry up even though she was so close to falling, and with every step, she came a little bit closer to actually tripping over her own feet, was Harry's suspicion that the woman could be a Death Eater. Of course, Harry could be wrong — because who knew, really?— but she was absolutely not willing to take the risk of being left alone in a room with her.

And if she told Harry or Ron, well, then she was dead. Snape had seen to that.

In the end, she made Defense just in time, appearing in front of the Defense class room half covered in sweat and breathing heavily. Draco screamed something condescending including the word mudblood at her from across the corridor, then laughed. Hermione didn't defend herself.

She wondered if Draco's father had informed his son of the new development. She wondered if he was already counting the days until his hated Gryffindor mudblood finally disappeared only to never make a reappearance.

Suddenly, Harry stood next to her, his hand on her shoulder. "Hermione?" he asked. She looked away. She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to talk to anyone. "Hermione?" She wondered if she would be able to miss Defense if she fainted now. "Are you okay? Hello? Hermione? What on earth did Snape do to you? You look, well, traumatized…"

The door opened; Umbridge, wearing her usual pink cardigan, stepped out into the hallway and greeted her students. Then she retreated into her room and all of a sudden there was a wave of fifth years pushing through the crowd to get to their favorite seats the quickest.

Hermione felt slightly dizzy, and even if she had wanted to, she couldn't go away now; the others were pushing her into the classroom.

She entered the classroom as if looking through mist. Everything seemed distant, distorted. She found herself a seat in between Harry and Ron, then took out her book, a quill and parchment from her bag.

Why?

Harry and Ron were trying to talk to her from both sides of her, but she wasn't listening to them; there was only one thought on her mind, repeated into oblivion: Why is he looking for me, Why is he looking for me, Why is he looking for me, and then, all of a sudden, as Umbridge made her way to the front of the room and started the class with her usual "Hem hem": Ignorance isn't bliss.

"Wands away," Umbridge instructed, that painfully self-satisfied smile on her face. "As we finished Chapter One last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen and commence "Chapter Two: Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation". There will be no need to talk."

The class gave a collective sigh, and suddenly, the mist lifted and all of Hermione's anger redirected towards Umbridge. It was all that woman's fault; without her she would have never talked to the snake, she would have never entered the Chamber, and therefore even Voldemort would have surely left her alone, just going back to ignoring her existence and giving a rat's arse about the muggleborn Hermione Granger until the end of time, like she wanted it to be. Like it was supposed to be.

Her rational side died a slow, unworthy, painful death as her hand was raised into the air and the determined, slightly insane smile appeared on her face.

It was insanity.

Umbridge smiled right back at her. She gave one stern look at the class, ordering them to start reading, then walked towards Hermione's desk until she stood directly before her, saying, very quietly so as to not disturb the other students: "What is it this time, Miss Granger?"

Hermione wasn't thinking straight. She wanted to get away from the woman as quickly as her feet could take her just as much as she wanted to provoke her, fight her, scream into her face.

"I already read Chapter Two." There was no hint of her internal battle in her voice; she sounded confident, bold, certain.

"Well, then proceed to Chapter Three." She sounded polite, nice even, but her eyes were filled with fire-like fury.

"I've read that too," Hermione said. "I've read the whole book." She didn't even care about herself in that moment. She just wanted to see that toad, that foul, loathsome parody of a Professor burn in flames; she imagined the fire in the woman's eyes devouring her alive and smirked maliciously.

Umbridge blinked but quickly regained her poise.

"Well, then you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counter-jinxes in Chapter Fifteen."

"He says that counter-jinxes are improperly named," Hermione said without hesitation, watching Umbridge's reaction closely. "He says "counter-jinx" is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable." Umbridge raised her eyebrows, but Hermione wasn't done by far.

"I disagree, however."

Hermione swore she could visibly see the fire pouring out of her eyes then.

"You disagree!" All the softness had vanished from her voice; her reply was almost shouted, resulting in at least half the class looking up from their books to stare at them.

"Yes, I do." Hermione raised her voice, too. There was no doubt in her voice as she said this. "Mr Slinkhard doesn't like jinxes, does he? But I think they're quite useful, when they're used defensively."

Harry shot her a desperate glance. She didn't mind. It was all her fault, all Umbridge, the snake, the library, Voldemort— all her, all her…

"Oh, you do, do you?" said Professor Umbridge, straightening up. "Well, I'm afraid that it is Mr Slinkhard's opinion, and not yours, that counts in this classroom, Miss Granger."

"But—"

"ENOUGH!" screamed Umbridge. Hermione stopped talking at once, proud of herself. She walked back to the front of the class and stood before them, all the jauntiness she had shown at the beginning of the lesson gone. "Miss Granger, you will stop interrupting my lesson and join me in my office for a little talk while the rest of the class continues to read as they were instructed. _Now._ "

Hermione walked towards Umbridge proudly, like one would when they were about to receive a medal. She shrugged as she stood up.

A minute later, she was sitting on a chair in her Defense Professor's all-pink office, surrounded by at least twenty cats.

"Miss Granger," Umbridge said, staring right at Hermione, "I am appalled by your impertinence! I usually do not hold detentions during lessons, but you- well, you just leave me with no choice." She reached into a drawer behind her, fishing out an ancient looking quill. Hermione's eyes flashed in recognition.

"I will make sure that you will never behave that way towards me or any superior of yours again, is that clear?" Again, her voice sounded polite, but her eyes told a different story.

"I won't apologize," Hermione told her, very clearly. "You can make me "write lines" like Harry if you want, but I won't. You won't make me feel sorry." She took a deep breath, then said:

"It's all your fault. I'm going to die, you foul, loathsome little cockroach, and it's all because of you! I HATE YOU!"

And Hermione's anger was a living thing, filling her, completing her with its irrational heartbeat; she felt it beat quicker and quicker inside of her in excitement, and a warm sort of feeling spread through her, and it felt right, so right, so it had to be right, and she stood up, pointing her wand directly at Umbridge, and a vengeful sort of smile curved on her lips, and she remembered Riddle's notebook, the spell, emphasized by the circle, and its goal, revenge. One word, one thought, one concept; so tiny, so insignificant, and yet, in that one moment, it was everything. Revenge. Nothing else mattered. Revenge, revenge, revenge.

She could almost physically hear her rational side screaming at her to snap out of it. But she didn't listen.

Because suddenly Umbridge had a thousand faces, all at once; the face of the great black snake with the almost crimson eyes, the face of the founder of Slytherin house, the face of Snape, for only teling her now, the face of Lord Voldemort, or at least how she imagined it to be. Revenge, revenge, revenge.

She didn't listen to Umbridge's plea as she saw the sadistic glimmer in Hermione's eyes. She didn't listen as Umbridge screamed, didn't care as she tried to run past her. What a bloody coward.

Revenge.

She didn't think as she cast the spell. She just did.

 _"Anagnorisis!"_

Then everything faded into black.


	2. In Which The Impossible Occurs

**_Author's Note:_** Thank you so much for all your awesome feedback! I'm really grateful. Please keep it up and don't forget to leave a review! :)

* * *

 _She didn't listen to Umbridge's plea as she s_ _aw the sadistic glimmer in Hermione's eyes. She didn't listen as Umbridge screamed, didn't care as she tried to run past her. What a bloody coward._

 _Revenge._

 _She didn't think as she cast the spell. She just did._

"Anagnorisis!"

 _Then everything faded into black._

* * *

 **Chapter Two: In Which The Impossible Happens**

Hermione had no idea what had happened.

One second she had been in Umbridge's office, hissing the spell at her Defense Professor, the next it was as if everything had fallen off of her; her body had disappeared, and so had her heartbeat and her breath. She was nothing and everything, all at once, both dead and alive; her senses were gone, and yet she inexplicably knew she was falling, deeper and deeper. She wanted to scream, but there was nothing, no sound, no-one who would have heard it, no lips it would have left.

And then, all of a sudden, the strangest sensation of being pulled through a straw.

With a loud thud, Hermione landed on what seemed to be cold, wet stone. Her eyes fluttered open almost instantly, and she gasped in terror at the sight in front of her — Slytherin's not-so-humble statue.

"No," she said.

Why in Merlin's name was she back in the Chamber? Hadn't she been in the Defense Professor's office opposite Umbridge just a moment ago, yelling at and cursing her wildly?

Umbridge.

The curse.

 _Anagnorisis._

She buried her head in her hands as the memories slowly returned to her.

Revenge, that was what the spell had promised. Revenge, or at least, what Riddle thought that to be.

Had she really just hit Umbridge with a curse crafted by none other than _the Dark Lord?_

Shit. Shit!

Shit, shit, shit!

She shouldn't have lost her cool like that. There was absolutely no excuse for it. She couldn't have, thinking about it now. She had to have imagined it.

Yes. That had to be it. She was Hermione Granger, after all, smartest witch of her era. She was the exact opposite of the "act first and think later" approach. She couldn't possibly have been so stupidly reckless as to…?

She had been. She remembered it. Clear as crystal, the memory sat at the front of her mind. She saw it now. The rush of sick euphoria, the fearful look in her Professor's eyes, the sound of the spell as she cast it. The blinding light, and how it had seemingly blinded her. The blackness.

She had cursed Umbridge.

Cursed her with Riddle's spell. The spell she should have never, _ever_ even known, and much less ever used.

She paused as a thought came to her. Could _Anagnorisis_ have killed her?

No, her mind seemed to scream at her. Absolutely not. But then she thought of Riddle. Riddle's spells, Riddle's track record, Riddle's _future_. And all of a sudden, the thought did not seem unrealistic at all.

She had likely just killed.

Hermione somehow found herself glad that of all people, it had been Umbridge, the foul toad, but still, the fact remained. And chances were it had been a bloody death too.

Shit, shit, shit!

Dead, the word repeated itself endlessly in her mind, dead, dead, dead. She imagined the woman lying lifelessly in the middle of her office, the cats meowing worriedly down at her from the places on the wall.

Honestly, she just wanted to hit herself bloody for her own stupidity.

How could she have? _How?_ Learning those spells in order to be able to protect herself against them was one thing, but to actually _use_ them…?

Nothing could excuse that. Not even Snape's revelation could have justified her reacting like that.

But no. No. Impulsiveness was what had gotten her into this situation in the first place, and she sure as hell wouldn't follow its all-too tempting siren call again. She clenched her first as hard as she could, feeling blood roll down her hand, as if to try and draw power from her arm in total.

Hermione stood up from her place on the floor. Sitting around would change nothing. She felt her gaze lock with that of the stone Slytherin several meters in front of her.

She would turn herself in. She had to. If the spell hadn't killed Umbridge —which, hopefully, was the case, or she would regret not having studied the Patronus charm for several years of prison to come— it had to have at least seriously hurt her. And she was responsible.

Hermione turned towards the exit, biting back the tears.

What would Harry say? Or Ron? The Golden Trio, broken apart once and for all. Ron would be shell-shocked, not that she could blame him, but Harry… Harry would feel betrayed. Betrayed that she hadn't told him of what was going on. He was, after all, the one person that would understand. Parseltongue. Voldemort. Feeling left alone by friends.

Not that she could blame him either.

What had gotten into her?

It was then that she was pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of something heavy gliding across the wet stone floor. She was just in the process of turning towards the sound, as to determine its origin, when she heard it.

 _"…Master's heir has come at last…"_

Hermione took in a sharp breath. Another hiss, another turn, and there it was.

All-too similar frighteningly bright golden eyes stared back at her for the second time in her life.

She reacted instinctively.

With a shriek, which she would deny to her dying day, Hermione turned on her heels, closed her eyes and ran towards the exit. She did not come far though. Only a few seconds later, she slipped on the wet floor and fell, hissing in pain as something in her back cracked.

She could hear the beast coming towards her, clear as day, and knew immediately that she had missed her chance. Instead of running, she closed her arms protectively around her face and upper body and tried —albeit unsuccessfully— to make peace with what appeared to be her imminent death.

She cried. Another thing she would never admit.

She could hear the beast approaching and desperately tried to think of something else than what was coming. Morbid and apparently masochistic as she was, she imagined her own funeral.

Then again, having died in the Chamber, would anyone even _find_ her corpse?

 _"…Master's heir… Master's heir is hurt…"_

They would likely just blame it on Voldemort and be done with it. Surely Snape would come clean to Dumbledore once she was-

Wait.

 _What?_

Did the basilisk actually think that—

How could that even—

Her, of all people! Her, Hermione Jean Granger, proudest muggleborn of Hogwarts! Her, the Heir of Slytherin!

It really had to be a joke.

A joke, she thought to herself, that she really shouldn't be questioning. Her options at this point were painfully obvious after all: play along, or die.

Hermione picked the first, just for the sake of principle.

She didn't even begin to think about how Harry had supposedly slain the basilisk in second year or how Tom Riddle had taken his rightful place as the heir of Slytherin almost fifty years back, making it impossible for that very same person to be her, and that person to be, in fact, having a conversation with that very same supposedly dead basilisk.

Remembering having read somewhere that basilisk's could actually be non-lethal if they actively chose _not_ to want to kill a person, and recalling how she had stared directly into the basilisk's eyes earlier and still lived to tell the tale, she opened her eyes.

She looked directly into the bright yellow eyes of the beast.

The basilisk was a mere meter in front of her, its eyes filled with almost childlike glee. She sat up to get a better view of it, cursing when a sharp pain sped through her back. It was even longer than she would have imagined it to be, at least ten meters long in length and as big as her in height and width. The basilisk's scales were an especially ugly shade of gray, and its eyes burned bright yellow.

It really made her wonder what kind of person would willingly breeding such a creature.

 _"…Master's heir… finally…"_

Hermione gulped, focusing her attention back on the creature dubbed as Slytherin's monster and taking a deep breath before replying. _"Yeah. Um… thank you for not killing me."_

She was well aware of how pathetic that had sounded but was floored that she had been able to reply at all.

 _"…I would never harm Master's heir…"_

 _"Of course not,"_ she quickly added, hoping she hadn't offended it and/or given herself away in the process. _"Just… thanks."_

The basilisk stared at her curiously. Hermione became suddenly aware that the basilisk was probably neither supposed to be (repeatedly) thanked nor be politely small-talked with.

Anxiously, she put up a crooked smile, hoping that this would mask the fact that she had no idea what she was supposed to be doing.

" _…Master said Master's heir will rid Hogwarts of the filth… I have waited a thousand years…"_

There was a short, awkward silence in which Hermione stared at the large reptile before her, continuing to smile in a somewhat lost way, before it added: _"…I await your orders, Master's heir…"_

Oh.

Oh!

Well, this was a problem. She _really_ absolutely _couldn't_ let the beast loose around the school, after all. She shuddered as she thought of the last time it had been released. What if somebody was killed?

 _Somebody else_ , a treacherous voice at the back of her mind corrected.

The basilisk was staring at her expectantly. She had to improvise.

 _"The time is not right for attacks momentarily,"_ she lied. _"You must not kill anyone except of the mice you need to survive or they will know it was me."_

Huh. That had been a lot more convincing than she would have expected.

She had a feeling that if she just straight-out told Slytherin's grand monster not to kill any muggleborns ever, her facade would be dropped a little too suddenly for her liking.

The basilisk seemed to be pleased with her answer. _"…I will follow Master's heir's orders…"_

Hermione sighed in relief. _"See that you do,"_ she said.

 _"…Of course, Master's heir…"_

Hermione thought of the unnecessary attacks she had just prevented, and the smile on her face turned genuine. But then she remembered the mental image of Umbridge lying dead in her office, killed by her spell, and all the happiness she had felt vanished, replaced by guilt once more.

 _"It was intriguing to make your acquaintance,"_ she said, _"but I really have to go now."_

She simply had to turn herself in. It was the responsible, mature thing to do. For whatever reasons she was here, she couldn't hide herself in the Chamber of Secrets forever. She doubted the quality of the basilisk's company either way. And maybe Dumbledore would know more about why the basilisk appeared to be suddenly resurrected and what to do about the situation in general. The thought comforted her greatly.

But what mattered most was that all of this madness would be out of her hands, and for that, she was truly grateful.

 _"…Until soon, Master's heir…"_

Hermione allowed the smile to fade away and walked out of the room quickly, not looking back.

She sincerely hoped it was the last time she had ever seen that wretched place.

 **.oOXOo.**

Hermione was out of the Chamber and back in Myrtle's bathroom within minutes, hastily hissing a _"Close"_ towards the entrance as she paranoidly looked around the bathroom for other people. It was more of an instinct than a conscious thing — after all, she would have to open it for Dumbledore again later anyway.

But she didn't want to think about that.

She was alive, and —more or less— well. That was what counted.

She washed her hands and found herself staring at her own reflexion in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, she noticed, even more all over the place than usually. There were dark gray shadows under her eyes and her uniform was wrinkled and wet from a mixture of Chamber water and sweat; her lips were pressed into a firm line, and her eyes radiated a look way too pained to belong to a girl of her age.

She turned away.

She continued to wash her hands until she could no longer possibly deny that they were flawlessly clean, and, sighing, made towards the door, when the sound of running water from the other side of the sinks to her alerted her to another's presence. She stiffened, hoping that whoever that person was hadn't seen where she'd come from.

"Hello?" she demanded.

The sound of running water stopped instantly. She heard the girl shifting her weight before she walked towards her.

"Hi!"

Hermione froze.

"I thought I was the only student to not take the Hogwarts Express this year," the girl smiled excitedly. Hermione shivered, but tried to hide it; she knew that smile all too well.

"I missed the train because stupid Olive Hornby sent me a letter saying that the time was changed, so Headmaster Dippet allowed me to floo in." She paused for a moment, then added: "I'm Myrtle Warren, by the way. Ravenclaw fifth-year prefect. And you are..?"

She almost gulped as she took in Myrtle's appearance. Her long brown hair was in its usual braids and her large, at all times curiosity-filled eyes were hidden by large, black glasses — all in all, she was the exact copy of Moaning Myrtle, with the only apparent difference being that her skin was not transparent, but tan and acne-ridden.

She was alive.

"Erm.. are you okay?"

Hermione coughed awkwardly. "Oh… yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking."

"No matter. So, who are you then? I don't remember seeing you before, and I've got a thing for faces."

Hermione remembered her flirting with Harry and pointing out what a pretty face he possessed in second year when they had brewed the Polyjuice Potion, then hid the ensuing chuckle by coughing again. _Yes, a thing for pretty faces alright._

"Are you sick?" Myrtle asked in a rather straight-forward way.

"Uh…no," Hermione replied rather intelligently. "And my name's Hermione."

There was silence for a moment.

"What, so… Hermione No-Last-Name?"

Hermione almost sympathized with Olive Hornby right then and there, whoever that was. But then she vaguely remembered Moaning Myrtle mentioning having cried in the bathroom after being bullied by Olive Hornby before being attacked by the basilisk and felt instant remorse.

Thinking about it, though… The basilisk was still alive, and so was Myrtle. And hadn't Myrtle mentioned a Headmaster _Dippet_ , not Dumbledore?

She could almost physically feel the logical conclusion lying right in front of her when she was interrupted by Myrtle once again.

"Well, you're not a Ravenclaw, that's for certain. You seem to have the attention span of a squirrel on drugs."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "I do not!" she corrected her. "And if you would kindly stop insulting me…! My name's Hermione. Hermione… Wilde," she concluded, borrowing the surname from her favorite muggle author in a stroke of originality. Somehow, unexplainably, she had the feeling that using her original surname would not be helpful.

"Oh, really," Myrtle said.

"Yes. Really."

"Well, I should go now, _Hermione Wilde_ ," the ghost-to-be told her. "The Hogwarts Express'll be arriving in three hours and I want to charm my things so the others can't hide or set them on fire like last year."

"Yeah," Hermione said unenthusiastically. "Bye, then."

"Bye."

Myrtle was almost out of the door when she turned around and commented, "You know, maybe you could shower in the meantime. I don't want to be mean, but you smell like mold and sweat. Don't you have a shower wherever it is you come from?"

The door closed behind her before she had a chance to defend herself.

Stupid, annoying Myrtle. It wouldn't do to get sidetracked complaining about her now though, although she really had half a mind to do just that. She needed to think.

She couldn't follow her original plan of turning herself in to Dumbledore anymore, she realized with shock. And not because she had changed her mind about taking full responsibility for what she had done; but rather because she now knew for a fact that wherever she was now, Dumbledore was not Headmaster.

Myrtle had said it, after all; Headmaster _Dippet_ had allowed her to floo in, and not Headmaster _Dumbledore_. Hermione remembered the name from Hogwarts: A History — as far as she could remember, Armando Dippet had been Dumbledore's predecessor.

Now that the silence had spread in the bathroom, it took Hermione approximately two seconds to think it over. She couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it.

For whatever reason, the spell that had promised her revenge must have made her travel back in time.

She took in a sharp breath. "Right," she whispered. "That thought will take some time to get used to."

Think, Hermione, think.

What _did_ she know about this approximate time period?

From what Harry had told her, she knew that Tom Riddle had opened the Chamber of Secrets using his powers as the Heir of Slytherin in the spring of 1943; Myrtle had died that year. She'd been fifteen. Making her… a fifth-year.

 _I'm Myrtle Warren, by the way. Ravenclaw fifth-year prefect._

The words rang in her head like an alarm.

Myrtle had said that the Hogwarts Express would arrive today. That would make today either the beginning of the new school year or the return from the winter holidays, since by the next break, Myrtle would have been dead; however, since Myrtle had been so surprised by Hermione's presence and there were always students that stayed at Hogwarts during the holidays, she could rule out the possibility of it being the end of the winter break.

September 1st 1942 then, if her conclusions were correct. Thirty-seven years before she, Hermione Jean Granger, would even be born.

She ignored the desire to crawl onto the floor and cry her eyes out. No, knowledge was power, and she knew some things by now —enough, hopefully. She had to use all the knowledge she possessed to her advantage. It was the absolute only thing she could do.

And maybe it _would_ help her to figure out what she was supposed to do now.

Back in 1995, Hermione had only just turned sixteen and looked not a single day older than that. The chances of anyone employing her, especially in the wizarding world, were beyond slim, which in turn meant that there were no other options for her except to return to school.

But that alone seemed like an impossible feat. She did not know if Dippet was as skeptical as Dumbledore, but even if not, even a child would think accepting a new student without a previously recorded existence was foolish.

Hermione sighed in displeasure.

Term began in three hours, and by then, Hermione would have to be enrolled. That really wasn't enough time to do anything.

Then again though, what _could_ she do? Maybe it was better to remind herself of her options.

Fake the documents? Impossible, as she had neither time nor money.

Confess to Dumbledore? It wasn't as if he had the power to enroll students, and either way, she doubted he would help a person that, appearing out of nowhere, claimed to have just travelled through time. She knew she wouldn't, especially with the war going on.

Let someone pretend to be her guardian and beg for Dippet to take her in? Possibly worth a shot, but then again, she had no money to bribe anyone with.

Then again, she could always—

No, she told herself. Absolutely not! Apart from being morally non-justifiable, using that particular spell could and would _really_ land her in serious trouble.

But wasn't even that possibility of serious trouble worth it in the long run? If she got into Hogwarts, she would be in the same year as Riddle. _The_ Tom Riddle who was about to go done in history as the Dark Lord Voldemort. This was the year he opened the Chamber, after all.

If she stayed, she could prevent it all from happening.

Then again, if the Dumbledore of her time had thought that changing the past would have been a good idea, it would have likely long been done, and by more qualified people than sixteen-year-old school girls, at that. Not to mention the fact that terrible things happened to wizards that meddled with time, and the consequences if she changed the time line would likely be nothing short of terrible.

But, Dumbledore, like her, would have thought that it was impossible to go back in time by more than just a few hours. And no matter how terrible the consequences would be, this was Riddle she was talking about. Lord Voldemort. The most dangerous Dark Lord to have ever existed. Just the possibility of her managing to change his ways, therefore preventing a war and thousands of senseless, cruel deaths, justified the consequences in her opinion.

And it was not like anything could happen to her, anyway, thinking about it. Her parents were muggles; they wouldn't be effected by the changes in the wizarding world, still conceiving and raising her.

It was foolproof, but foolish too. The chance of her success rested disturbingly near zero, since for starters, she wouldn't even be in Riddle's House. She would have literally no reason to even look in his direction.

Was using _that_ spell really worth all that?

And yet, she knew she had to try.

Even if her plan included fighting Riddle with his own weapons.

 **.oOXOo.**

Hermione stood in the corridor attached to Myrtle's bathroom, leaning against a wall. Her mind was racing back to the lesson on the Unforgivables the so-called Moody had given them last year, desperately trying to remember every single detail. She had virtually no experience with casting any of the curses, but she knew that if she did not get it right on the first try, she would be doomed.

And if anybody's words on them were anything to go by, then it was those of an esteemed Death Eater like Crouch himself.

 _Total control,_ she remembered him saying, _it can be fought, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone's got it._

She sighed and prayed that the next person to turn the corner wouldn't be Dumbledore.

Fortunately for her, Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen. Approximately ten minutes later found a very much alive, though already very old Professor Binns' eyes widen in horror as Hermione pointed her wand straight towards him.

 _"Imperio!"_

She had cast it in parseltongue to be certain, hoping that since it wasn't "regular" magic, it wouldn't be picked up by the castle's wards. Her History Professor's eyes immediately glazed over, and Hermione found herself smiling in relief that she had gotten it right.

The odd feeling of holding a person under the curse assaulted her immediately; as if a second mind had been added to her own, to be controlled and abused to the full extent of her desires, and Hermione found herself both disgusted and exhilarated at that thought at the same time. In the end though, the disgust won.

If Binns was trying to fight it off, she didn't notice.

 _Go to Dippet's office_ , Hermione ordered him inside her mind, hoping to get this over and done with as quickly as humanely possible. _Say the password. Introduce me to him as your niece, Hermione Wilde. I am sixteen years old and wish to start my fifth year at Hogwarts._

Binns started to move in the direction of the headmaster's office without hesitation, Hermione following straight behind. Meanwhile, she transfigured her Gryffindor sweater into a plain white t-shirt and vanished the rest of sweat, blood and Chamber water on her body, then charmed herself to smell pleasantly of flowers and freshly mown grass.

No need for Dippet to ask questions.

 _You will tell Dippet that your sister who used to home-school me died yesterday in a tragic accident and my father died shortly after I was born._

Hopefully that sob story would be enough to convince him.

They turned a corner, and a wave of guilt sped through her as she once again caught sight of Binns' empty, void eyes. Maybe she shouldn't be doing this, after all… there _was_ a reason the curse was called "unforgivable".

But no, she had to do it. And it was too late anyway. Now that she had already cast the curse, she might as well use the opportunity.

They walked through the abandoned corridors of the school in complete silence from then on.

 **.oOXOo.**

Armando Dippet was, amongst other things, not a man of outstanding mental ability. He smiled at the Imperiused Binns softly, meanwhile fidgeting with his great white beard for entertainment.

"What a tragedy, Cuthbert!" Dippet said, looking directly into the Professor's empty eyes. "Of course, there is no doubt about the fact that we will accept your niece into Hogwarts with open arms!"

"Thank you, sir," Hermione thanked him.

"Oh, no need for that, my dear. Now, for the formalities. What did you say your name was again?"

"Hermione, sir. Hermione Wilde."

"Well, Ms Wilde. May I ask, how old are you?"

"Oh, I'm sixteen."

Dippet paid no mind to the fact that Binns merely sat on his chair, not moving except for the occasional blink of his eyes.

"Ah. A sixth-year then."

"No, sir. I was just born on September 19th, which still makes me a fifth-year."

The headmaster stared at her curiously. "You seem remarkably well informed, my dear."

"Uncle Cuthbert," she mentally chuckled, "told me, sir."

"Of course he did, now," said Dippet. "Competent man, your uncle is. One of my most talented teachers. Say, what subjects have you studied up until now?"

"My mother taught me everything that was taught at Hogwarts when she was a student here. When I was thirteen she also started teaching me Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures additionally."

"Marvelous!" Dippet exclaimed. "That greatly simplifies things."

"I imagine it would, sir."

Dippet stood up from his seat, walking over to Hermione and extending his outstretched arm towards her.

"Well, Ms Wilde," he exclaimed joyously, "Welcome to Hogwarts!"

 _Really?_ It couldn't possibly be this easy!

She took his hand and shook it. "I'm very grateful, sir."

"Oh, nonsense!" Dippet laughed. "What kind of headmaster would I be if I drove you away? Cuthbert, what's the matter with you?"

Hermione focused back on her mental connection to Binns. _Tell him that you were just thinking._

"Oh, I was just thinking, Armando," Binns said mechanically. Hermione flinched internally at his utter lack of emotion, but Dippet didn't seem to mind in the least.

"Yes, yes, of course. How silly of me. After all, it was not only Ms Wilde's mother but also your sister that passed away."

 _Nod._ Binns nodded gravely.

"Go and get some rest, old friend. It seems you need it. I will see you in the Great Hall."

 _Leave the room and wait for me outside._ Binns stood up and left, still not a single emotion on his face. The door fell into its hinges behind him.

"I apologize for my uncle, sir," Hermione said. "My mother and he were very close. Her death shook him greatly."

"Oh, no need for apologies my dear," Dippet waved it off. "What did you say your mother's name was?"

She gulped. "Erm… Amanda, sir."

"Ah, yes. Amanda Binns… I suppose I do remember her from her time at Hogwarts. Red-haired, was she?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione lied.

Dippet chuckled. "Eighty years as headmaster, and I still remember every student. Now, Ms Wilde. I trust that your uncle explained to you that we have four different houses?"

"He did."

"Good, good. There are Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and, of course, Hufflepuff. The best house of course, having been my own. Now, usually students are sorted in the Great Hall at the beginning of their first years, but for you, we will have to make an exception."

"Oh?"

"The Sorting Ceremony has always been reserved for first years only, Ms Wilde. It has been that way since the school was founded. Usually when we have transfer students they are simply Sorted here by me shortly before the other students arrive, and I don't see why we should proceed any differently now."

"I understand."

"Very well, then. Please stay seated."

Dippet walked over to a bookshelf several meters behind her, retrieving the Sorting Hat from its usual place. "This should not take too long."

 _Of course not_ , she thought. _It'll just put me in Gryffindor and we'll be done with it._

She felt the hat being placed on her head then, immediately hearing the familiar deep voice in her mind.

 _Ah yes. I have already Sorted you before, I remember. A time traveler, are you? Don't worry, I will keep your secret. Gryffindor, was it last time?_

 _Yes. And I would be grateful if you could spare both of us some time and just Sort me there again._

 _Let's just see. It was between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw last time, I remember. I put you in the lion's house due to your bravery and strong morals. And you are, aren't you? Brave, chivalrous, daring. But you are other things, too, are you not? No, putting you in the lion's den would be a vast injustice to you._

 _What? What do you mean? Put me in Gryffindor!_

 _I see patience, kindness and tolerance, but Hufflepuff House would not challenge you enough. You'd grow bored, and we don't want that, do we? Ravenclaw, perhaps? Yes… that could be an option. I see smartness, intellect, curiosity… quite the bookworm you are, and Ravenclaw would greet you with open arms._

 _Gryffindor, you stupid hat! Put me in Gryffindor!_

 _Ah, but then again, there is a difference between being smart and clever. You want to be a Gryffindor above anything else? What determination you show me. Don't try to hide it, girl. Your resourcefulness… casting that Imperius certainly proved it. And that ambition… I have only ever Sorted a single mind with ambition that paralleled yours, and you will meet him soon._

 _What? I- You're kidding! I'm- I'm a muggleborn for crying out loud! Anywhere but there!_

 _Oh, stop begging. It does not become are destined for greatness. It is your destiny, girl!_

Hermione was scared of the direction this was taking. _No! Absolutely not! I forbid you!_

 _Why so opposed, my dear? No, this is the right choice. You will reach your full potential in only one house, and that is-_

"SLYTHERIN!"

She hid her face behind her hands in shame. This could _not_ have just happened! Her! In Slytherin!

Curse the stupid hat! She would sneak into Dippet's office and set it on fire one of these days. How could this have happened? She was a true Gryffindor!

She heard Dippet chuckle amusedly behind her, feeling the weight of the hat lifted. "Why, no need for such a drastic reaction, Ms Wilde! I can only imagine the things your dear uncle Cuthbert must have told you to warrant a reaction like this."

Hermione immediately recognized her mistake and pulled herself together, banishing the bitter thoughts for a later time and sitting up straight.

"I apologize, sir. Uncle Cuthbert did not tell me a thing, actually, but I did a bit of reading ahead and heard of the house's bad reputation. I realize it must have come across the wrong way."

"Nothing to worry about," he reassured her. "I would not have seriously have considered old Cuthbert telling you such things, anyway… Ravenclaws and Slytherins are quite close, after all."

Hearing that Binns was a Ravenclaw made her feel instantaneously better about not having been sorted there.

"Now," Dippet said. "Am I correct in making the assumption that you did not have the opportunity to complete your shopping for this school year yet?"

She blushed. "Actually… yes sir."

"I thought so. Libby!" A house elf apparated into Dippet's office, enthusiastically awaiting orders. "You will go into Diagon Alley and purchase all Hogwarts fifth-year supplies as well as three new sets of robes for Ms Wilde, then place it in the Slytherin dormitories! You may take the money from Cuthbert Binns' salary."

Hermione felt decidedly uncomfortable about making a rather considerable dent in the poor Professor's salary, but did not speak up.

"Right away I's be doing that," Libby said, bowing low and disapparating.

"I'm sure Cuthbert will not mind too much," Dippet said. Hermione gulped. "Now, I am afraid there are some things I must organize. Since the password for the Slytherin dormitories is momentarily only the knowledge of this year's fifth-year prefects, I suggest you ask your dear uncle to escort you to the library. I will have Libby take you to the Great Hall when it is time."

"Thank you, sir."

"It is nothing, Ms Wilde. I'm sure your time at Hogwarts will be most pleasant."

Somehow, Hermione doubted it.

 **.oOXOo.**

Hermione had never thought she would live to see the day on which the Hogwarts library seemed to lose its calming effect on her, but as she stepped into the empty halls now—having opened the doors with a simple Alohomora— if anything, she felt even colder, even lonelier than before.

She sighed, closing the door behind her. Binns walked right behind her, eyes still covered in a milky film and expression, for the loss of a better word, dead. At least she was enrolled now. That was something. Or at least, that was what she kept telling herself.

Because in truth, she couldn't have felt less content about having achieved her goal. Her accomplishment was overshadowed by her problems, which seemed to have only multiplied upon her enrollment. Just one look at Binns and she felt like going straight back to Dippet, begging for expulsion.

At least in Slytherin, she would be close to Riddle. She didn't particularly like it, but she saw the advantages of it. Her Sorting had a silver lining. But Binns?

What was she going to do with him? She couldn't very well release him from the curse, that much was for certain. Even if she obliviated him afterwards to make sure that he didn't go blabbing, what would she do if someone asked him about his niece and he had never even heard of her?

But could she really keep a teacher under the Imperius curse for an _entire school year_? It wasn't just morally problematic, after all. Not only did she seriously question her skill in regards to keeping up Dark curses for a long period of time, but surely someone would be bound to notice what had happened to him?

She found an empty chair and sat down, trying in vain not to hyperventilate.

 **.oOXOo.**

When Libby came to pick her up some time later, Hermione had still not left the chair, although she had summoned at least a dozen books on the Unforgivables and various compulsion charms. She sighed in annoyance when she saw the elf.

Despite her efforts, she hadn't found a single thing. Not a single clue on how to continue. And now her time was up.

Binns was still with her. She had spent the better part of an hour giving him detailed instructions on what to do in a plethora of situations, already foreseeing that her research would not help. She had only kept him in the library in case she still found something — a curse, a charm, anything. Now she knew keeping him with her any longer was pointless.

 _Go to the Great Hall. Remember my instructions. Hurry._

Binns left his seat and stood up, having left the library before Libby had even reached her.

"Master says I's be supposed to bring you this," the elf told her, dumping a pair of Hogwarts robes into her open arms. She opened them up and saw a silver snake on her House emblem, feeling dizzy all of a sudden.

 **.oOXOo.**

They walked to the Great Hall in silence. Hermione heard the other students before she saw them. Hearing the sound of excited chatter made her feel oddly melancholic; she imagined Harry and Ron standing before the entrance, waiting for her, looking euphoric in their Gryffindor robes, and smiled blissfully.

But then she opened her eyes, looked down at her robes and found dark green were there should have been bright red. And once she had reached the entrance to the Hall, it wasn't her friends that greeted her — it was a young, slightly round man with short brown hair, expensively clothed.

"Horace Slughorn," he introduced himself to her. "Head of Slytherin house. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms Wilde."

"A pleasure to make yours, too, Professor," she replied politely.

"Come, come. All the others are already inside. At least, all Slytherins. As you can see, the other houses are still in the process of slowly trickling in. Fifth year, are you? Splendid students I have in that year. I am sure they will give you a hearty welcome."

He continued on in this fashion, half praising his House and students, half asking her rhetorical questions, until they reached the Slytherin table. Slughorn, she decided, was an arrogant man, but nice enough otherwise. She turned around, taking in her surroundings. The Great Hall looked odd from this side.

"Riddle!" Hermione heard Slughorn exclaim, and she turned her head back towards the Slytherins. "I have a new student for you! Fifth year she is, just like you. I trust you'll introduce Ms Hermione Wilde to the others."

And there he was.

She wondered for a moment if this really was him. The boy in front of her seemed too neat, somehow, too nice, too polite. But Slughorn had unmistakably spoken to him, and not one of the others, so there was no question about his identity.

The juvenile face of Lord Voldemort was perfectly symmetrical, lined with aristocratic features. His dark brown, almost black hair, trimmed into tidy perfection, only served to emphasize his almond-shaped eyes, which were just the slightest shade lighter. There was a surprising depth to his eyes, she noted, that one could surely get lost in.

He was just fifteen, but Riddle certainly did not look it. Not even necessarily due to his height, but due to those eyes. Those eyes that seemed to scream intelligence and maturity.

She did not know what she had expected, but this was not it.

Tom Riddle was, literally, the personification of correctness.

"Naturally, Professor," Riddle replied with ease. His voice was already very deep and had an almost soothing quality to it. His smile was undoubtedly genuine.

He couldn't possibly really be this way, Hermione found herself thinking. This was ridiculous. He had to be acting.

What an ingenious actor that had to make him, though.

She found Riddle's eyes on her and tried her hardest not to shudder, reminding herself of _who this was_. "I'm sure Ms Wilde and I will get along splendidly."

"Perfect, perfect!" cheered Slughorn. "Ms Wilde, did I not tell you that you would get along well? Now, I am afraid I must leave you to it. Head table and all that."

He shot them another smile before disappearing.

Riddle's gaze seemed to burn into her skull, so intense was it. She had to force herself not to shudder. She found herself a space between a girl with long, blond hair and a boy with short black waves and sat. Deciding to take the courageous approach, she stared right back at him.

Riddle seemed to be unfazed.

"Tom Riddle," he said pleasantly and with an air of confidence, "fifth-year prefect. Welcome to Slytherin."

Hermione forced a smile. "Thanks. I'd introduce myself, but you've already heard my name."

"That I have. An unusual name, Hermione. Greek, isn't it?"

Was Riddle seriously making small-talk with her?

"It is, actually. It's the feminine form of Hermes, the messenger god."

Riddle chuckled. Had she just made Lord Voldemort _chuckle?_

"Well, you should feel right at home here. They might as well call Slytherin the House of Ancient Names. Me, of course, being the exception. You know what, in fact, why don't I introduce you to one now? Ataraxia!"

The girl with the long blond hair next to her looked up. Her face lit up immediately when she saw that it was Riddle that had called her.

"Tom?" She flashed a smile. "What is it?"

"Ataraxia, may I introduce you to Hermione Wilde? She is a new student and also in fifth year."

She felt Ataraxia's eyes lock with hers and studied the girl's face. She was a natural beauty, the kind that, back in her time, would have changed boyfriends every few weeks, although the obvious pride she possessed due to it made her just the tiniest bit uglier in Hermione's opinion.

"Really?" Ataraxia asked. "I think I know some Wildes, in Manchester. Interesting. Ataraxia Malfoy."

"Hermione Wilde," Hermione answered redundantly.

"We'll spend a lot of time together from now on," the blond said, "so let's just hope we get along. Oh, no matter. Of course we will. Shall I introduce you to the other fifth years?"

Hermione shrugged. "Sure. Thank you." The girl seemed a bit overzealous, but she would take it over the expected being looked down at condescendingly any day.

Ataraxia waved it off. "No matter." She took a deep breath, then looked around the table.

"Well… you've already met Tom Riddle."

That she had. Hermione noted that Riddle was already busy engaging in conversation with someone else. Obviously, the boy could not have cared less about her.

She didn't know wether to be elated or disappointed about it.

"He's the male fifth-year prefect, me being the female one. That," she said, pointing toward a somewhat familiar looking blond on the other side of the table, "is my twin brother, Abraxas. Brax!"

The blond turned towards his twin, sneering. Hermione knew why she had thought him to look so familiar now — he looked like an exact copy of Draco, although Abraxas' eyes were blue, and not gray, and his hair was just minimally darker.

"I told you not to call me that!" Abraxas hissed, and Hermione could not help but giggle. Except of that one time when she had punched Draco in third year, she had never seen Malfoy getting worked up like his historical counterpart was doing now. Even though, of course, she had tried. Numerously.

It was just too humorous a sight.

"Hey!" Abraxas cried, shooting her a look. "That is _so_ not funny! Who are you, anyway?"

"She's a new student," Ataraxia replied. "Name's Hermione Wilde."

"Wilde?" the male Malfoy asked. "You know, I think I remember some Wildes… down in Manchester…"

"Don't take him too seriously," Ataraxia said. "He takes himself _just_ a little too seriously."

She pointed at two girls that were bickering over something several seats away from them. "You can't really see them," she said, "but those are Phyllis Flint and Ariadne Prewett. Be careful with Phyllis, she's easily insulted and holds grudges until the end of time."

"Sounds lovely."

"Oh, she's really alright once you get to know her. It's just… getting to know her is a bit difficult. Ariadne… well, she's a bit simple, but very nice."

"Who's that?" Hermione asked, pointing at a brown-haired girl that was crouched over a book of some sort that she immediately empathized with.

To her surprise, Ataraxia scoffed. "That's Elissa. Elissa Richmond. She's in fifth, too. But… I don't know. She doesn't talk too much. Never has, really. More of the bookish type. Don't know why the hat didn't Sort her into Ravenclaw straight away, if you ask me."

"So… you don't like her?"

Ataraxia shook her head. "I think she doesn't even register my existence. It's just her and her books. Like, if you wake up in the middle of the night and look at her bed, she's still reading. It's creepy. Even if you try to start a conversation with her, it lasts half a minute at most. And she's always sitting with the Ravenclaw girls at lunch. She's obviously in the wrong house."

Hermione coughed awkwardly, making a mental reminder not to read too much in Ataraxia's presence.

"That's all the girls, I'm afraid. But at least, with you here, all the beds will be occupied in the dorm. Now for the other boys…" she pointed at the black-haired boy next to Hermione. "That's Perseus Lestrange, and that guy next to him is Thaddeus Nott. I don't really know them that well, too be honest."

Ataraxia sighed. "And that guy that Riddle's talking to now? Ares Yaxley. Smartest guy you'll ever meet. Walking encyclopedia. I'm always saying he and Elissa'll end up together one day. It's the perfect couple."

"I can see that happening," Hermione said conversationally.

"I know, right?" The blond shot her a smile. "You can call me Tara, by the way. Ataraxia's really a mouthful."

"I noticed," Hermione smiled relievedly.

And she really was relieved. She was sitting at the Slytherin table, only a meter away from the young Lord Voldemort, but at least she wasn't lonely. At least she had… a friend? No, that wasn't right. She was a Slytherin — she had an alliance.

Well, whatever it was, it was something.

At that moment, Dippet stood up and the entire hall fell into silence. He made a small speech about the merits of learning and hard work before stepping aside, allowing Dumbledore to proceed with the Sorting. It was the first time that Hermione saw him in this time, and she was instantly happy she hadn't gone to him for help.

Albus Dumbledore had bright red hair, his beard nothing more than a little stubble yet. Seeing him made her immensely happy, since he looked so much like his older counterpart; and yet, there was overpowering sadness and strictness in his eyes that separated him from the joyous Dumbledore she knew. Naturally, she told herself, since he was in the process of beginning to fight Grindelwald. But she could see how it affected him. Were students sorted into Gryffindor, his smiles turned even brighter; at students sorted into the snake house, however, his scowl looked even more sinister than it had in 1995.

No, she thought, he really would have never helped her.

Halfway through the Sorting ceremony, Hermione risked a glance towards Binns and found him sitting passively in his chair, his eyes staring into the void. Some of the students had already begun staring at him; he was the only Professor that did not clap whenever the hat cried out its decisions.

 _Clap when the Hat says something. And look at the students._

About half an hour later, "Zabini, Emma" was sorted into Slytherin. The little girl walked toward the table to the far left with a content smile on her face and Hermione was just about to start a new conversation with Tara Malfoy when Dippet spoke up again.

"Another school year has begun," said Dippet, "and it is not only first years that have joined us in these sacred halls of knowledge this year. I invite you all to give a warm applause of welcome to Professor Binns' niece Hermione Wilde, a new student that will start her fifth year and was Sorted into Slytherin."

At this, all remaining Slytherins that had not yet noticed her presence locked eyes with her. Hermione blushed. There was some applause, though it was moderate. Most came from the snakes themselves, while some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs joined in for good measure. The Gryffindors were quiet, which bothered her more than she would have liked to admit.

"And now," Dippet exclaimed, "let the feast begin!"

Food appeared on their tables then, and while Dippet sat back down, the conversations resumed.

"Wilde!" she heard a voice call her. She turned around, looking for the origin of the sound, when she found Ariadne Prewett waving excitedly at her from a few meters away. Phyllis next to her looked apathetic. "Welcome to Slytherin!" she cried.

Hermione smiled wholeheartedly and waved back before turning back towards the food.

"So, Wilde," the boy next to Riddle, Ares Yaxley, spoke up. "Welcome to the snake pit."

"Thank you. I suppose."

"Say," Ares said, "I wonder what made you come here? You see, Hogwarts next to never allows for students to transfer from other schools."

Hermione noticed the suddenly very interested look in Riddle's eyes and internally cursed. Of all the times, why did _this_ have to be the part where he was suddenly interested?

She coughed. "Well… it's a long story, but I can shorten it if you want."

Ares gave her an encouraging nod.

"My dad… well, he died when I was three. My mom raised me all alone and she home-schooled me. She always said Hogwarts wasn't balanced between light and dark magic enough," she improvised, hoping to impress the Slytherins, "so she thought it was better to teach me herself. But then… well, she had a heart attack last week. It came out of nowhere… I had no idea she was even sick, and then, all of a sudden, she was… gone."

They all stared at her in silence. "So… now I'm here."

She prayed that that sob story was enough to stop them from asking questions.

"What a tragedy," an all-too dreaded deep voice commented. She looked up and found that Riddle had resumed his staring from earlier.

"You say your mother attended Hogwarts," Perseus, the black-haired boy to her right, said. "Your father, was he wizard, too?"

"Her name's _Wilde_ , Lestrange," Tara intervened. "I know for a fact that there's a magical family named Wilde in England. Of course he was."

There was expectant silence for a moment as everyone's eyes stared her down, expecting her statement. She could practically feel how big a deal this was for them. Disgusting, really. But then again, why should she make things intentionally hard for herself?

"My father was a wizard, yes. My parents met at Hogwarts."

The moment she said it, she felt ashamed of herself.

"Making you a pureblood, then," Riddle noted appreciatively.

"Yes," she confirmed, adding a somewhat offended sounding "Of course," for good measure. She had to stick to her story, after all.

"And you say your mother homeschooled you?" Ares inquired. "I don't want to offend your mother, but the standards at Hogwarts are high enough, especially this year since we will be taking our OWLs."

Several Slytherins nodded their agreement.

Hermione huffed at the insult. "I studied from the Hogwarts textbooks," she argued. "And I was always a quick learner. I have an inkling that I'll be alright, to be honest."

"Well, if _I_ should be honest," Ares replied, "I've heard those exact lines from several Hogwarts students as well, and they never did end up alright."

It might have seemed as if Ares genuinely cared about her academic future, but in reality, the sadistic glint in his eyes told Hermione differently. This was a game for power, and she wasn't about to lose.

"Well, then I suppose I'll be the first," she said dryly.

There were a bunch of astounded "Ooh"s and "Ahs" and even a single catcall, then Perseus Lestrange began complaining about the quality of his roasted chicken and in an instant, all was forgotten about Hermione Wilde and her abnormal academic confidence. It took a minute before a full-fledged debate on the uselessness of house elves was born. A debate in which the entire table seemed to suddenly emerge itself in; with two exceptions.

Hermione Wilde and Tom Riddle, who continued staring at the newcomer as if to burn a hole into her skull.

Once again, Hermione stared right back.

Riddle did not even blink.

 **.oOXOo.**

Dinner passed in a hurry after that. The debate on house elves lasted another ten minutes before all parties seemed to grudgingly agree on their usefulness, although several condescending words were used and not hearing the word "filth" at least once in a sentence was a true surprise.

Hermione thought back on the long evenings in Gryffindor tower which she had spent knitting hats and socks for the elves and how adamantly she had defended the tiny creatures. Now, though, she knew better than to make enemies and kept those opinions to herself.

She continued to listen attentively, although she did not once speak up again. For the Slytherins, she found, debates seemed to be second nature and unofficial house sport — they eased effortlessly from one topic onto the next, not once stopping for air or private conversations.

What impressed Hermione the most was how literally the entire house was involved; well, except for her, Riddle, who was —unnervingly enough— still staring at her, and Elissa Richmond, who seemed to be absorbed into the pages of her book.

Hermione would have felt right at home, were it not for the fact that the Slytherins were obviously not arguing for the sake of knowledge, but for power. The near mad looks in their eyes when they won were testimony enough of that. She stared longingly towards Ravenclaw table, which, although just a meter away, seemed endlessly far out of reach.

Then she stared at Elissa Richmond, who was decidedly nearer.

And then she stared at Tom Riddle, who had literally not taken his eyes off her for half an hour.


	3. Author's Note

**Hey there!**

 **As you may or may not have gathered by now, this is not an update. Believe me, I've been trying to get one out there for several weeks now, but everytime I start writing, I feel like whatever comes out is just crap. So basically, after the longest amount of time spent annoying myself with the thought of updating, I've now decided that I simply can't push myself to do it, and so while the update WILL come (because seriously, I've planned it all out already) I don't know when, and it might take a while.**

 **Sorry specifically to JuliaLestrange, who I told ages ago that I'd have it ready in a few days. Which didn't happen.**

 **Please don't hate me. Writer's block is just killing me.**

 **Gemma L. Riddle**


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